


Like Wolves

by someonelsesheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I just have a lot of post-episode feelings, M/M, Pre-Slash, post-Raving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it’s always there, stronger than the sharp taste of the whiskey, something like blood and pain and disappointment all mixed together: grief. Grief because he’s lost something, and he doesn't even know what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Wolves

Stiles’ dad isn’t home when he gets in, and he can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

Stiles doesn’t like to think of himself as a coward, which, yeah, stupid, right? Because he’s the one always running, always hiding, always the powerless one. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a coward, because he _knows_ what his mum would say, _knows_ that she believed in things like bravery and doing what you think is right. He’s not a coward by choice, but he’s certainly not going to go after his father, so does that mean he still is one?

Stiles doesn’t know.

He gets a call from Scott not long after he gets in. He stares at his phone for a long time, and he _knows_ that he should answer, _knows_ that it could be important. Stiles had checked on Scott before he’d left, feeling like an intruder as he stood in the surgery for a few minutes before mumbling an excuse and leaving. He should answer. He really should.

He throws his phone across the room.

He can feel the anger and frustration and grief crawling up his throat, desperation clinging to him like a swarm of annoying bugs. He sits down on the edge of his bed, puts his face in his hands. His phone rings again, sounding a little broken as it trills out the standard tune. Stiles swallows, feels the tears overflow.

_They fired you_

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, beginning to pace. The tears won’t stop coming, betraying him. He feels like somebody has thrust a hand into his chest, pulling out his heart and crushing it. He feels like he’s ran a marathon, only to find he’s taken a wrong turn and somehow ended up miles from where he should be. He feels like he’s breaking, shattering to pieces.

_I did something_

He laughs a little through the tears. Pathetic, he thinks, because it is. It’s pathetic because the _only thing he’s ever craved_ is admiration. Respect. He wants people to look at him like he’s _good_ for something, instead of like he’s a liability, a burden. But he’s not really good for anything, is he?

He lashes out, feels his hand come into contact with something hard and cold. His mirror shatters to pieces, pieces of glass dragging down his hand, blood going everywhere. He stares at it for a moment, and then turns around and walks out. He goes to his dad’s alcohol cabinet, takes out a bottle of cheap whiskey his dad won’t miss, and proceeds to go upstairs and get absolutely smashed.

And it’s always there, stronger than the sharp taste of the whiskey, something like blood and pain and disappointment all mixed together: grief. Grief because he’s lost something, and he even doesn’t know what. He’s lost a piece of him, an expectation that he didn’t even know he had, and it feels like he’s lost a vital organ, for God’s sake.

It says something about what a state he’s in that Stiles doesn’t even look up when his curtains flutter and a soft weight lands on the carpet. He doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting on the floor next to the shattered remains of the mirror with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, trying to swallow down the tears and failing.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and it’s not gentle, not soft, but it’s understanding. And Stiles thinks that if he had been anything _but_ understanding, if it had had even an ounce of warmth or gentleness to it, he would have lost it. But understanding he can take, because when Derek says “Stiles”, he doesn’t say it like an apology or a plea – he says it like he _gets it._

Stiles looks up, eyes watery and hands coating in dried blood, and says, “My dad got fired.” He blinks, and then spits out the words he hasn’t allowed himself to even think, let alone say, “Because of me.”

Derek sits down next to him, gently plucking the bottle from Stiles’ hands and pulling him up, leading him to the bed. Stiles laughs a little halfheartedly as he falls back into the pillows, jokes, “If you wanted to get me in bed, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” It falls flat, broken, and he turns his head so it’s buried in the pillow. He hears Derek move around, and then feels the man turn him over and look at his hands, cleaning them gently.

And Stiles looks at him, just kind of stares. And it’s strange, really, because despite the whole Used To Be Fugitive and mentally unstable werewolf thing, all Stiles can think is that his mum would have liked Derek.

Because Derek is brave, and he _cares._ He cares about his pack, about all sorts of noble things like respect and bravery and pride. Stiles is still pending on whether Derek actually cares about Stiles, but that doesn’t matter, really, does it. It’s the pack that counts.

_You’re pack, too,_ a quiet voice in his mind suggests. It’s a voice he ignores.

When Derek has finished, he sits next to Stiles on the bed. He doesn’t say anything, sits just far enough away that it can’t count as fond but doesn’t really register as cold, either. Stiles lies back on the bed, feeling far too sober, and says, “I’m tired.”

Bone deep, gut wrenching tired.

And Stiles thinks that maybe Derek _gets_ that, that Stiles doesn’t mean tired physically but _tired right down to the bone,_ right where it aches. He doesn’t really expect a reply, isn’t disappointed when there’s a long stretch of silence. He just stares at the ceiling and soaks in the quiet, weak and sad and slow. He thinks that, no, he doesn’t feel like he’s ran a hundred miles and then taken a wrong turning. He feels like he’s ran a hundred miles, taken a wrong turning, and just as he was about to cross the finish line, got hit by a bus.

Just when Stiles feels sleep begin to fall over him like a heavy blanket, soft and warm, Derek speaks.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is rough and bare. “Me too.”

 

 


End file.
